the weight of victory
by Feyren
Summary: Five of Akashi's favorite things, and one not quite.
**the weight of victory**

Akashi Seijuuro does not have time for silly questions. Not even when he is four. Not even when the wife of an important business partner bends to face him, stare into his eyes and ask him quite seriously, _What is your favorite color?_

The question is meaningless on more than one level. There is no point, he thinks, in attaching himself to a color. Should he have said red, like his namesake? Blue, like the popular color among boys his age? Gold, like the color of the medals and trophies that he has already been taught to dream of? More importantly, the concept of favorite colors, favorite _anything_ is frivolous, and he tells the young lady so. She stares back with something like genuine astonishment.

Then his mother breaks into laughter, lightly smoothing his hair, and the moment passes. _You should have a favorite color,_ she tells him afterwards, still smiling, still amused. _There's nothing wrong with that. Do you understand, Sei? There's nothing frivolous about having a favorite color._

He always had been a precocious child, but even precocious children think their mothers are the centers of their worlds. So Akashi expresses with great solemnity the mistake of his actions and promises that he will make an effort to decide on a favorite color. She ruffles his hair like that is not what she meant at all, and tucks him into bed.

* * *

When Akashi is six, he decides that his favorite food is tofu soup.

It is the very first dish he makes for his mother, already ailing in her health, a wisp of a woman. He finishes his assignments and studying early and with vigor, and runs to the kitchens after. The family chef appreciates his seriousness, his earnestness, his enthusiasm.

There had been a lot of that, back then.

It takes him two afternoons to master—two, because Akashi is six years old, and two because Akashi is a prodigy at everything he does. And when he delivers the finished product to his mother's bedroom, it is met with warmth and surprise and _pride_. Akashi decides then and there that no other food could possibly compare, could possibly draw out the same beautiful smile from the first woman he ever loves.

* * *

His favorite sport is basketball, and that is a decision, too. It begins with the basketball that his mother hands him and it doesn't end, not really. That brilliant orange, the bumpy leather texture of the ball. It feels like electricity against the sensitive skin of his palm, and Akashi cradles the ball tight to his chest.

The ball is small and child-sized, a full seventeen ounces, but when he holds it he feels lighter.

He does not know Teiko then. He has not understood the weight of victory then.

But he will.

* * *

His favorite animal, he decides right away to be the lovely white horse in his family stables. Yukimaru is exactly Akashi's age, only a colt when they meet, and the horse nuzzles him affectionately like they are already family.

When Akashi is six, he thinks that Yukimaru is white like tofu. When he's seven, he thinks that Yukimaru is white like snow.

When he is in his fifth year of elementary school, he thinks that Yukimura is white like the lilies at his mother's funeral. White and beautiful. White like death.

He doesn't visit the stables for some time after the funeral. It comes, in fact, at the pushing of his father. _What is the point of abandoning your equestrian studies_ , the criticism goes. _What do you hope to achieve by shutting yourself away?_

Because it is not enough to be flooded with studies and assignments. Latin and violin and French and piano and fencing and too many things. Too many and too few, not enough, because he can still remember the soft touch of his mother's hand in his hair, the soothing chime of her voice in his ears.

When he finally goes to the stables again, Yukimaru prods him with his nose, his white mane a sharp contrast against Akashi's brilliantly red hair. Akashi closes his eyes and imagines that they mourn together.

* * *

Akashi's favorite number is one, and this does not come as a realization to him at all. When he does realize it, it is only the realization that this has been the case all along. He is fourteen and young and far too old, and he favors the number because it is the number of exceptionalism. Of victory.

One, because he is an only child. One, because he is the youngest captain in Teiko history. One, because there is only one Akashi Seijuuro and that is all the world needs. That is all _he_ needs, because there is no point in seeking help. No point in committees, no point in teamwork. When Nijimura resigns and leaves the captaincy to Akashi, he finds that there is no point in having a vice captain, either.

He watches as Daiki wanders off into the rain, arrogant and twisted and broken. As Tetsuya returns, soaked and distraught and alone. As their team grows and stretches and distorts, like a star whose points have elongated and sharpened and extended beyond recognition. They are five lines running in different directions, destined to never intertwine. Worse than parallel, because they do not run side by side.

One is the best number, he thinks, because people leave so easily.

* * *

Akashi is excellent at all subjects, but he has a secret fondness for philosophy. Not at all for the fluffiness of it—none of the philosophical waffling on state of being and phenomenology and _what is the meaning of being_. The only part of philosophy Akashi likes is the logic, and he likes logic enough that it redeems the rest of the discipline.

Everything, he thinks, is applied logic. Everything down to the next shogi piece to move, the next violin string to hold, the next piano key to press, the next player to pass to.

There is logic in each and every one of his victories. There is logic in the way he plays, from Mayuzumi Chihiro's recruitment to Shintaro's loss. There is logic in his absoluteness. He must not lose.

Then Akashi loses and unfortunately, retrospectively, there is logic in that, too.

* * *

When they gather again on a street court on December 31st, it is for Kuroko's birthday. At least that is what Momoi says, but Akashi watches her discreetly brush a tear from her eyes and knows better.

He steps back a little while the game is in motion, and tries to see what she sees.

Midorima, the greenness of his eyes glinting behind his glasses. Kise, golden and laughing and beautiful. Murasakibara, overwhelming and violet and effortless. Aomine, finally with something like _enjoyment_ in his navy eyes. Kuroko, an ephemeral shadow by his side, the color of a cloudless blue. Himself, crimson and unburdened by the weight of victory.

 _A favorite color,_ he thinks, and smiles.


End file.
